


the fireworks that go off when you smile

by zach_stone



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eddie Kaspbrak's Shorts, Emotional Healing, First Kiss, Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Post-Canon, Stargazing, Swimming, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:08:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,063
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21937219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zach_stone/pseuds/zach_stone
Summary: Eddie seems in better spirits than before, and he gets some of the playful gleam back in his eyes after a few minutes, shoving Richie off the dock and into the water while laughing loudly. Richie comes up for air, water dripping all over his glasses, and the sight of Eddie’s head thrown back with laughter is enough to make him feel like he’s still below the surface, losing all his breath.--Or, the Losers take a vacation together and Richie pines like it’s his goddamn job.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 58
Kudos: 1111
Collections: Reddie Secret Santa 2019





	the fireworks that go off when you smile

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kaspbrak_kid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaspbrak_kid/gifts).



> this fic has EVERYTHING: yearning, emotional healing, the Tiny Red Shorts — you know, it’s that thing where eddie has on running shorts that give richie an anime-style nosebleed? 
> 
> anyway, for real, this is a gift for the incomparable becca as a part of our reddie secret santa exchange! becca, u are wildly talented and a great friend and inspiration, and i tried to incorporate as many of your wishlist items as i could (i didn't tag em all so some will be a surprise i hope), so i really hope u enjoy this journey of Pining and Healing. i love u!! merry christmas!!! 
> 
> title is from “don’t get me wrong” by the pretenders, which is essentially richie’s theme song in this fic:  
> Don't get me wrong  
> If I'm acting so distracted  
> I'm thinking about the fireworks  
> That go off when you smile

The chittering of squirrels and birdsong greets Richie as he peers out the open window of Stan’s car, watching Ben and Beverly’s cabin come into view around the corner. _Cabin_ feels like too small a word for the two-story lakeside house that stands with its wide windows and wraparound porch at the end of the long driveway. Richie whistles.

“Y’know, when Ben said ‘cabin’ I was envisioning, like, Little House on the Prairie,” Richie tells Stan. From the driver’s seat, Stan snorts out a laugh.

“Yeah, no shit,” he says. “I was thinking we’d all have to huddle up in sleeping bags in one room.”

Richie grins. “These bougie fucks don’t know real camping, Stanley, it’s a goddamn shame.”

“Alright, Mr. Netflix Special, you’re a bougie fuck now, too.” Stan parks the car next to the several others lining the driveway. Richie can see Mike sitting on a porch swing with Beverly, and they both stand up and start walking down toward the car as Stan and Richie get out. 

“Hey guys!” Bev calls, and Richie turns around to wave, but his greeting catches in his throat when he sees the front door to the house open and Eddie jogs down the steps to catch up with Bev and Mike. 

Eddie catches Richie’s eye and grins at him, and Richie immediately feels the back of his neck heat up. God, he needs to pull it together, he can’t be reacting this dramatically thirty seconds in. He lets himself smile back at Eddie, because that’s always been easy. Then he’s being wrapped up in a hug from Bev, and he welcomes the distraction. Mike hugs him, too, clapping him on the back, and then Eddie is in front of him and Richie panics and reacts the same way he did at thirteen — he slings an arm around Eddie’s neck and pulls him down so he can give him a noogie, mussing up his carefully combed hair. 

“How ya doin’, Spaghetti?” he says, as Eddie squawks in protest.

“Agh! Get off me, dipshit!” Eddie says, smacking him in the side. Richie, snickering, releases him. Eddie straightens up and fixes his rumpled shirt, shoving a hand through his hair in an attempt to fix the mess Richie’s made of it. “You’re such a dick.”

Richie just keeps grinning at him, feeling that same childish thrill at riling Eddie up, getting him messy and scowling. It felt, back then, like the only safe way to get Eddie’s full attention. Eddie’s scowling now too, but it softens too quickly into something more like fond annoyance, and then Eddie’s opening his arms for a regular hug. 

And look, Richie’s only human. He hugs Eddie back, and he doesn’t let himself linger like he wants to, but he does squeeze Eddie a little tighter than he had Bev or Mike. It’s fine; no one else can tell. He’ll allow himself this. 

When they pull back, Eddie is still looking at him fondly, and Richie quickly turns away to say something, _anything_ to the others before he does something stupid like confess his undying love in the middle of Ben and Beverly’s driveway. “I really can’t believe you have three houses, Bev. Like, this is excessive. It’s unseemly.” 

“Keep talking trash, Trashmouth, and see if you get invited to the beach house next summer,” Bev says. 

Eddie, Mike, and Stan all laugh, and Richie clasps his hands together in mock supplication. “I take it all back, please let me continue to take advantage of your wealth.”

“Like you need it,” Mike says, snorting.

“Okay, I don’t know how much money you all think most comedians make, but I’m really not rolling in it,” Richie says, while Stan goes to pop the trunk so they can get their bags. “I’m not fuckin’ Seinfeld.”

“Well, thank god for that,” Bev says. 

Stan passes Richie his duffle bag before slinging his own over his shoulder, and they all trudge back up the driveway toward the house. Eddie keeps pace with Richie, and Richie bumps his arm against Eddie’s.

“Seriously though, Eds, how are you? You look good.” He clears his throat, glancing away. “I mean, like, happier.”

And he does; certainly happier than a year ago, when they were all in Derry, but none of them had been very happy then. The last time Richie saw Eddie was about four months ago — Richie had been in New York to be on a late-night talk show, and he’d met Eddie for lunch in the city. Eddie’s divorce was finally almost finalized, and his stress lines were out in full force for the entire hour and a half that he and Richie sat across from each other in a diner. Now, he’s smiling easily, he’s got a little more color in his face, more life behind the eyes. Richie’s heart squeezes painfully in his chest.

Eddie ducks his head, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “Thanks, man. Yeah, I — I am, I think. Happier. Did I tell you I started running?”

“Like, on purpose?” Richie says, and catches an elbow in the ribs for it. He leans away from Eddie only for a moment, laughing, before he’s drawn right back in again. 

“Yes, fuckwad, on purpose,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. “I always wanted to as a kid, but my mom, you know, thought I’d keel over.” He frowns. “And then with Myra… I mean, she said it was bad for my asthma, which — anyway, point is, I really like it. I’m down to a seven-minute mile now,” he adds proudly.

Richie grins, tapping Eddie lightly on the shoulder with his fist. “That’s awesome, man, congrats. I don’t think I could even run a _thirty-_ minute mile.” 

“I might start training to do a marathon,” Eddie says. When he glances at Richie, he looks almost nervous, like he’s expecting Richie to tell him he’s nuts. “I think I could do it,” he adds, defensive.

“Fuck yeah you can,” Richie says, beaming, and Eddie’s face relaxes again. Before their conversation can go any further, they’re up the steps and into the house, and Ben and Bill are barreling over to envelop Richie and Stan in enthusiastic hugs. Over Bill’s shoulder, Richie watches Eddie talking to Beverly, his expression open and easy as he laughs at something she said, and his heart squeezes again. It’s a pain he’s quickly learned to live with, because it’s better than the alternative. He’d rather ache for Eddie Kaspbrak than not have him in his life at all. 

* * *

They spend the rest of the evening outside on the back porch, where Ben and Bill fight with the grill and make everyone slightly charred burgers, and then they all sit around drinking beer and watching the moon rise over the lake. They stay out there for a long time, laughing and sharing stories and generally shooting the shit, and Richie feels a warm blanket of comfort settling over him, here with the people who _get_ him like no one else ever did. It’s easy to fall into, and it gets him out of his head a little bit. He doesn’t have to think too hard.

Ben is the first to turn in for the night, and Mike follows soon after. Beverly stays up with them another half hour, but eventually she also calls it a night, scooping up empty beer bottles to dump in the recycling on her way into the house. 

Richie looks around and says, “And then there were four. The OG Losers Club.”

Stan snorts, and Bill says, “I mean _technically,_ the original Losers Club was just me and Eddie.” Eddie high-fives him.

“Oh, _excuse_ me,” Richie says, rolling his eyes. “If you want to count the one year before you knew us. Is it really a club if it’s only two people? I feel like maybe you guys were just losers, lowercase ‘L’.” 

“Jealousy is unbecoming,” Eddie says, which cracks Stan up. Richie shakes his head, taking another sip of beer.

“So Rich, what’ve you been up to, man? I feel like you’ve hardly said anything all night,” Bill says then, and Richie tenses slightly, his beer still raised to his lips.

“Dude, I talked like, nonstop tonight,” he deflects. And he did, probably more than anyone else, an endless stream of wisecracks and bullshit. 

“I mean something besides jokes,” Bill says. “I don’t even know what’s been going on in your life!”

Richie sighs. When he’s with his friends, it’s easier to make stupid jokes and dwell in the past, because looking at his future is all uncertainty and he’s scared of what he’ll find — or what he might _not_ find. Talking about it is hard. It’s like everything gets jammed up in his throat, and he can’t push past it to be sincere for once in his fucking life.

And it’s even worse to talk about what he’s _up to_ when he looks at Stan, who has a house and a wife, and Eddie, who’s taking these incredible, tangible leaps toward recovery from decades of trauma, and Bill — well, okay, it seems like Bill’s personal and professional life are both kind of a mess right now, actually. Richie tries to focus on that when he says, “I don’t know, man, just… doing the talk show circuit, shit like that, trying to revive my career after I killed it with my public meltdown last year.” He laughs humorlessly. Then, picking at the label of his beer to avoid eye contact, he adds, “I, uh, I’ve been thinking about… coming out, publicly.”

He came out to the Losers a few months ago — mere days after he’d met up with Eddie for lunch in New York, actually — over a text message in their group chat. It went over well, like he knew it would, and everyone’s been supportive, but it’s an entirely different beast to say it out loud, in person, with his three oldest friends sitting next to him. Richie clears his throat nervously.

He looks up when Stan puts a hand on his arm. “Good for you, Rich,” Stan says kindly. 

“You know we’ve got your back whatever you decide to do,” Bill adds.

Richie smiles slightly, still jittery, but comforted enough to keep talking. “I’m just trying to decide how to do it, you know? Like, do I say it on a talk show, or do I wait until my next special? Most of the time I just want to make a dumb tweet about it and get it over with.” He shrugs. “I don’t think that one’s the smartest career move, though.”

Eddie leans forward then, and Richie realizes just how intensely Eddie’s been looking at him this whole conversation, even though he’s stayed silent. “You should come out the way _you_ want to,” he says, and there’s a fierceness to his tone that’s almost startling. “This is your _life,_ Richie, this isn’t just a career move. Even if it’s not, like, the ‘career-safe’ choice, it should be the one you want.” 

Richie blinks at him, his stomach doing a fucking somersault, pinned under Eddie’s weirdly passionate stare. He swallows another mouthful of beer to stall for time, shifting his gaze away. Spread out before him, the lake looks like flat, black glass. “Jeez, is the risk analyst really telling me to ignore the risks? What’s the world coming to?” he manages to joke.

He expects Eddie to roll his eyes, to huff and lean away again, but he doesn’t. He says, still earnest, “I just think some things are worth the risk.”

And Richie doesn’t know _what_ the fuck to do with that. He resolutely tells himself not to puke on Ben and Beverly’s porch, because he thinks if he did it would just be the words _I love Eddie Kaspbrak_ a hundred times over, all puddled on the slats of wood. He stands up rather abruptly. “I should go to bed,” he says, aware that he’s talking too loud, being too fucking obvious. “I’m jetlagged as fuck. Also maybe a little drunk.”

“Okay…” Stan says, frowning at him.

“You alright, Rich?” Bill adds.

“I’m fine, just. Tired.” Richie waves his hand dismissively. “See you nerds in the morning. Don’t get eaten by bears.”

“Shut up, there are no bears here,” Eddie grouches, looking more annoyed than usual, or maybe just disappointed. As Richie heads inside, he hears Eddie ask Bill in a more concerned voice, “There aren’t, right?” 

Richie’s bedroom is next door to Eddie’s, so he knows exactly when Eddie comes inside to go to bed. He can hear the door open and then click shut again. Richie rolls onto his side in bed, facing their shared wall, and pines like it’s his goddamn job. If being a lovesick idiot was a career, Richie would _actually_ have enough money to afford three houses. His talents really are wasted this way. 

As he drifts off to sleep, Richie curls up close to the wall that separates him from Eddie, and pathetically imagines that on the other side, Eddie is doing the same.

* * *

The lake behind Ben and Bev’s house is a wide, shimmering expanse, the dock stretching about a third of the way into the water. Trees circle the shore, offering patches of shade, and the sky above is a perfect, cloudless blue. It’s almost nothing like the quarry when they were kids, with its slimy green water and a sheer cliff face to cannonball off of, but when Beverly takes the first running leap off the dock and into the water, it’s like they’re all thirteen again. 

They’re stripped down to swimsuits instead of underwear this time, because they’re _adults,_ and to Richie’s intense disappointment Eddie is wearing a T-shirt along with his swim trunks. He’s still standing on the dock after everyone else has jumped in, slathering sunscreen and bug spray on himself and lecturing all of them about the dangers of skin cancer and malaria-carrying mosquitos. He hasn’t bothered to meticulously style his hair today, so it’s got a bit of a wave to it the way it did in childhood, when they would sun-dry after the quarry and Richie would muss up Eddie’s curls just for an excuse to touch them. 

Eventually, Eddie sticks his sunglasses on his face, a white stripe of zinc oxide on his nose, and then carefully clambers into an inner tube and pushes himself away from the dock, floating aimlessly with his legs and arms hooked over the edges of the tube. He looks ridiculous. Richie wants to dunk him underwater and kiss him senseless at the same time. 

Instead, he ducks away from where he’d been having a splash fight with Bev and surreptitiously watching Eddie, and swims over to rest his elbows on the inner tube, his chin on his arms. Eddie turns to look at him over the top of his sunglasses, and Richie’s stomach swoops.

“You better not fucking dunk me, asshole,” Eddie warns.

“Why, Edward, I wouldn’t dream of it,” Richie says in mock offense. Eddie squints at Richie like he definitely doesn’t believe him, but then he just tips his head and pushes his sunglasses back up his nose, so Richie stays and lets himself really _look_ at Eddie, up close where he can see clearly without his glasses. The sunscreen has left Eddie’s skin a little shiny and washed out, but Richie can still see the freckles on his cheeks and knows there are more across the bridge of his nose, hidden by the zinc. A few more dot his arms, where he has a hint of a tan line at the edge of his shirtsleeve. Richie wants to reach out and touch them. 

When they were kids, Richie had once taken a pen and made a little connect-the-dots with the freckles on Eddie’s arm. He remembers how he’d felt, holding Eddie’s wrist in one sweaty hand while the other carefully pressed the pen against the skin of Eddie’s forearm. His lines had come out shaky, and Eddie’s gaze had been on him the whole time. Afterwards, of course, Eddie’s mother had yelled about how Eddie would get ink poisoning, so it had never happened again. But Richie had thought about it for a long time after that, about pressing his finger against Eddie’s skin instead of a pen, tracing imaginary lines. 

Richie blinks himself out of the memory, bobbing in the water beside Eddie’s inner tube. Those are dangerous memories to get into right now — maybe it’s for the best Eddie isn’t shirtless, if Richie’s getting this worked up over an exposed forearm. 

“You’re really not gonna get in the water?” Richie asks, his voice a little too loud again. Eddie startles, shifting to look at Richie. “I’ll even let you try to drown me, just like old times.” 

Eddie snorts, pushing his sunglasses up onto his head. “No fuckin’ way, do you know how dangerous it is to swim in stagnant water like this? There are parasites that swim up your dick and eat your brain.”

Richie blinks at him. “How does it get from your dick to your brain?”

“It — it swims up your urethra, I don’t fucking know,” Eddie says, flapping a hand at him. “My point is, I’m not risking parasites in my dick, so I’m good up here.” 

Richie bites back a grin. Eddie is just too much sometimes, he really is. “Dude, we swam in way nastier water than this every fucking summer when we were kids.”

“Yeah, and it’s a miracle that didn’t kill us before the fucking clown could even try,” Eddie says darkly. Richie can’t help it — he busts up laughing, because Eddie’s stern little scowl paired with his zinced-up nose and his unruly curls is just — it’s _so_ much. Richie loves him so much he could burst, and laughing is the only way to relieve some of the aching pressure behind his ribs. 

Eddie reaches into the water and splashes Richie full in the face. “It’s not fucking funny! It’s true!” he says, but Richie can hear the barely restrained laughter in his voice, so he just splashes Eddie back. Eddie splutters, scrambling to sit up so he can have better aim, and Richie shoves at him playfully, and then suddenly the whole inner tube is tilting and Eddie goes flailing out of it, into the lake. 

He comes up a second later, spitting out water and sopping wet and missing his sunglasses, and Richie laughs so hard there are tears in his eyes. “Oh shit, are you okay?” he manages, giggling as he reaches out a hand to grab Eddie’s shoulder.

“You did that on purpose!” Eddie complains, floundering to grab the side of the inner tube and clinging to it. He kicks one of Richie’s legs under the water. “Aw man, my sunglasses,” he adds mournfully, looking down at the rippling surface of the water. 

“Sorry, Eds,” Richie says, hooking an arm around the inner tube so they’re both bobbing there, only a foot apart. Eddie’s hair is plastered to his forehead, water trickling from his temple down the side of his face. His eyes are very big and dark, standing out against the sunscreen-pale of his face. 

Richie thinks he’s probably imagining it, but Eddie’s eyes flick away from his face for a moment, looking down at Richie’s bare chest. Richie feels a little self-conscious — he’s not exactly fit, he’s kind of pale and hairy and currently soaking wet. It only lasts a second, anyway, and then Eddie’s meeting his gaze again and he looks a little flushed. 

“Um.” Eddie clears his throat. Then, sounding more like his usual self, he says, “I need to get out of here, dude, I can practically feel the parasites swarming me.”

“Gotta protect that dick,” Richie agrees, and then cringes internally. Luckily, Eddie only kicks him in the shin again before swimming over to the dock and hoisting himself ungracefully out of the water. 

Behind him, Richie can hear the rest of the Losers splashing and yelling and generally paying no attention to the brief moment that’s just passed between him and Eddie. That’s probably for the best. He starts to swim back toward the others when Bev wolf-whistles, looking at the dock, and Richie spins around in the water and then nearly dies on the spot.

Eddie is yanking his sopping wet shirt over his head and wringing it out, grumbling as he does so. Richie can see the strong line of his back, the muscles in his shoulder and bicep as he twists the shirt in his hands. His swim trunks are hanging low on his hips, revealing just the very top of his hipbone, the dip of his lower back before the swell of his ass. When Eddie turns around to face the rest of them, Richie can see his toned chest and stomach, the faint trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband.

Eddie flips Bev off, smiling wryly, and she laughs. Then Eddie’s gaze falls on Richie, who is staring openly with his mouth slightly agape. His face burns, and he panics and dunks himself underwater to avoid Eddie’s stare. When he comes up for air again, Eddie’s pulled his shirt back on and is making his way back up the dock toward the house. 

Richie watches him go, in the water up to his neck and feeling like a kid again — too many desires bottled up inside himself that he doesn’t know how to untangle. They all revert back to childhood a little bit when they’re together, and in a lot of ways it’s nice. They’re reliving the youth they didn’t get to have thanks to an interdimensional space clown. Richie just wishes he didn’t also have to relive the humiliation of a middle school crush magnified by decades.

He expects Eddie to come back and hang out by the dock at least, but after nearly twenty minutes he hasn’t returned and Richie’s getting antsy. He gives the others some vague excuse about needing to use the bathroom and clambers out of the water, walking back up to where a pile of towels waits on the railing of the back porch, along with his glasses. One of the towels is missing already — Eddie’s, presumably. Richie towels himself off and then slings it around his shoulders. He puts on his glasses and ducks into the house. 

“Eds?” he calls out. He listens for the sound of the shower, but the house is quiet. “You still in here, buddy?” He wanders through the kitchen, his damp feet squeaking on the tile floor, and peeks his head through the entryway into the living room. He finds Eddie, shower-damp and sitting on the sofa with his hands folded in his lap. He’s staring at nothing in particular, his knee bouncing with a nervous energy, but he lifts his head when Richie comes into the room. He’s wearing different clothes now, and Richie is momentarily distracted — Eddie’s got on overalls and a striped shirt, something he never would’ve worn just a few months ago. He looks fucking _cute,_ it’s absolutely terrible, Richie is going to die a hundred times before this vacation is over. 

“Um, hey,” Eddie says nervously, his knee still bouncing. 

“What are you wearing?” Richie blurts out.

Eddie looks down at himself. “Oh. Uh, Bev said I should try them, I don’t know. I’m probably way too old to be wearing this shit, but I thought, you know, I’m trying new things now? So. Overalls.” He gestures to himself a little awkwardly, then looks up again, wary. “Why, do I look stupid?” 

“No!” Richie says too quickly. He’s gripping the ends of the towel around his neck and momentarily wonders if he could just strangle himself with it instead. Eddie looks confused, but he doesn’t press the issue, and Richie pulls his shit together enough to ask, “Are you okay? I thought you’d come back outside.” 

“Yeah, uh, I was going to,” Eddie says. He winces, staring at the floor. “And then when I came in to change I kept thinking about parasites and I — I swear to god I could fucking feel them all over me, so I got in the shower and scrubbed myself for like fifteen minutes before I made myself stop.” He lets out a humorless little laugh. “So. I don’t think I should go back out there right now.”

Richie crosses the room to sit next to Eddie on the couch, leaving a reasonable amount of space between them, but close enough to touch if Eddie wants to. “Shit, Eddie, I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to tip you over.”

“No, I know, it’s not your fault,” Eddie says. He rubs his hands over his thighs like he’s trying to wipe sweat from his palms. “I’m just so… _fucking_ pissed at myself. Like, I shouldn’t still — I’m supposed to be getting better, right, and like I run now, and I let myself eat junk food sometimes, and I got in the fucking water even though I wanted to just stay on the dock, but I still feel like I want to douse myself in bleach because I could get sick. It’s pathetic.” He clenches his fists over his bare knees.

Richie’s putting his hand over Eddie’s before he can even think about it; all he’s thinking about is the miserable resignation on Eddie’s face and how he wants to fix that immediately. “Eddie, come on, man, that’s not how this shit works. One moment doesn’t, like, negate all the progress you’ve made.” 

Eddie looks at him, still morose. “It’s just stupid. Nobody else was freaking out about a parasite swimming up their urethra.” 

“To be fair, I didn’t know that was something that I _could_ be worried about until like thirty minutes ago,” Richie says. He feels awkward and clumsy; he doesn’t know how to have these kinds of conversations, ones where earnest emotions are involved. 

Eddie snorts out a laugh, though, and his knee stop its anxious bouncing, so Richie must be doing something right. He squeezes Eddie’s hand gently, and Eddie’s expression softens into a smile. Richie wants to kiss him, right on his dimpled cheek. Instead, he moves his hand away. 

“Thanks for coming to check on me,” Eddie says. “I feel like such a loser.”

“Well lucky you, you’re in good company,” Richie says, bumping their shoulders together. “Loser central out there, Eds. You don’t even have to get in the water.” 

Eddie side-eyes him, still smiling. “Yeah, alright. Let’s go, you’re dripping all over the couch.”

“I am not!” Richie exclaims. He stands up, turning around to see the damp impression of his own ass on the couch cushion. “Don’t rat me out to Ben and Bev or they’ll banish me from the house, and I won’t survive a night in the yard.”

“Yeah, I hear there’s bears,” Eddie says, nodding somberly. Richie can’t help but crack a grin, and Eddie breaks a moment later, laughing. “You’re such an asshole, Richie, I was up half the night worrying about fucking bears and googling shit — you know there are black bears here? They can run up to thirty-five miles per hour!” 

Richie slings an arm around Eddie’s neck and drags him out of the living room, back toward the backyard. “Guess you’ll just have to outrun ‘em then, Mr. Marathon. You’ll be a regular Usain Bolt.”

“He’s a _sprinter,_ that’s not the same thing,” Eddie says, squirming under Richie’s arm. “Marathons are about endurance and stamina.”

Richie waggles his eyebrows at Eddie. “You wanna talk about stamina —”

“Alright, beep beep, fuckface,” Eddie says, shoving against Richie’s torso to escape. Richie’s teasing falters when he feels Eddie’s palm pressed up against the soft, sensitive bare skin of his side, just below his ribs. It’s enough of a distraction that Eddie’s able to duck out from under his arm and get to the back door, sliding it open before turning around to look at Richie. “You coming?”

“Yep,” Richie says, plastering on a wide smile. 

Everyone calls delighted greetings when they walk down the dock together, and no one seems to suspect anything was amiss — or, more likely, they understand in that way that best friends do, and they don’t need to bring it up. Richie sits on the edge of the dock with Eddie for a little while, and Bev swims up to chat with them, gushing about how flattering the overalls look on Eddie, which makes him duck his head and blush up to his ears. Richie’s glad that _someone’s_ able to openly compliment his outfit. He’s tempted to pinch Eddie’s cheek and coo _“cute, cute, cute!”_ and brush it off as childhood ribbing, but he worries that would be even more obvious than he already feels like he’s being half the time. 

Eddie seems in better spirits than when Richie’d found him in the living room, and he gets some of the playful gleam back in his eyes after a few minutes, shoving Richie off the dock and into the water while laughing loudly. Richie comes up for air, water dripping all over his glasses, and the sight of Eddie’s head thrown back with laughter is enough to make him feel like he’s still below the surface, losing all his breath. 

* * *

By the end of the day Richie can tell Eddie’s still stuck in his head a little bit. He’s subdued during dinner, not as easily riled up as usual, and even when Bill and Richie both try to goad him with embarrassing childhood memories, he waves them off with a laugh and averted eyes. Seeing Eddie unhappy kick-starts some deep instinct within Richie, it always has — he wants to _fix_ it, to relieve the tension from Eddie’s shoulders and smooth out the frown lines on his forehead. Even when he was a kid, he could look so fucking distressed sometimes, like he’d seen a lifetime’s hardship by the age of twelve. 

Luckily, Richie already has a solution in mind. When Stan had been pulling up the long driveway the day before, Richie had seen amongst the many cars a pickup truck that presumably belonged to Ben. It sparked a memory, and now Richie thinks he can put it to good use. He waits until everyone else has gone to bed, sitting in his room and listening to the floor creaks that indicate Eddie’s up and pacing in the next room. He slips out of bed and pokes his head out into the hall — he can see the stripe of light from under Eddie’s door. 

Richie knocks. After a few seconds, Eddie opens the door. He’s in his pajamas, and frowns as he takes in the sight of Richie, still fully dressed. “What’s up?” he says.

“Can’t sleep?” Richie asks, leaning against the doorframe. 

“Uh, not really,” Eddie says. “Why?”

“I have an idea,” Richie says. “C’mere.” He pauses, looking Eddie over. “And you might wanna grab a jacket or something, it’s brisk outside.” 

“Outside?” Eddie repeats, but he steps back further into his room for a minute, returning with a blanket draped around his shoulders like a cape. At Richie’s amused look, he says, “What! It was the closest thing I saw!”

“Just come on,” Richie says, shaking his head and biting back a smile. He leads Eddie out the front door, moving quietly so they don’t wake up anyone else. Richie picks his way across the driveway until he comes to a stop in front of the pickup, patting the side of it. “Thought we could do a little old-fashioned stargazing,” Richie says. “Like old times, remember?” 

Eddie blinks a few times, staring at the truck, and Richie can see the way his eyes glaze over as the memory returns to him. A smile plays at Eddie’s lips, and when he looks back at Richie, there’s such a sudden fondness there that Richie’s face grows warm. He ducks his head, avoiding Eddie’s eyes. 

“You remember?” he asks again, looking at his shoes.

“Yeah,” Eddie says wonderingly. “Yeah, I remember.”

They’d been sixteen, and Eddie’s mom was moving him away to Queens, which might as well have been the other side of the fucking planet as far as Eddie was concerned at the time. He’d been miserable, moping around the whole last week before moving day, and Richie, in a fit of that same desire to fix Eddie’s misery, borrowed Mike’s grandpa’s truck one night and drove Eddie to the outskirts of town, where there was nothing but tall grass and dirt and the sky spread out like a twinkling canopy above them. 

It’s not quite the same now, with everyone else’s cars parked around them and the cabin just a few dozen feet away, but the sky is just as bright. They settle on their backs in the truck bed, Eddie cocooning himself in his blanket and Richie just tugging the ends of his jacket a little tighter around himself. When they were sixteen, it’d been colder than it is tonight, so Eddie had pressed into Richie’s side, and Richie had put an arm around him, his heart jackhammering in his throat the whole time. 

He doesn’t need to do that now, there’s no excuse for it, so he keeps his limbs to himself. Eddie’s still close enough that he can feel the warmth from his body radiating in the narrow gap between them, though. That’s more than enough to get Richie’s blood pumping. Touch starvation will do that to a guy. 

“I gotta get out of the city more,” Eddie murmurs, his eyes on the stars. “You don’t see shit like this in New York.”

“You’re telling me,” Richie agrees. “LA’s one big pollution cloud.” He cuts his eyes over to Eddie, tracing the outline of his profile in the moonlight. From this angle, he can see the harsh line of the scar on his cheek, the way it cuts through the center of his dimple when he smiles. 

“When we did this as kids… I’d never done something like that before,” Eddie says after a few moments of contemplative silence. “Just gone out to the middle of nowhere like that. We stayed out so late, I was sure my mom was gonna kill me.”

“Aw, we were pros at sneaking you in and out by then,” Richie says, grinning. “She was none the wiser.”

“That must’ve taken so much work,” Eddie says, turning to look at Richie. “I never really thought about it at the time, but you had to get Mike’s truck without his grandpa knowing, and you had to sneak out of your house, and pick a spot where you knew no one would bother us…” He smiles slightly, almost in disbelief. “You did all that for me.”

“Well, yeah,” Richie says, face flaming. God, he’s always been just so fucking transparent. Thank god Eddie was apparently oblivious in his youth. “I mean, it wasn’t a big deal. You were just so sad, you know? Like a little kicked puppy. It was tragic.” 

“Yeah, I was,” Eddie agrees. “And you made me feel better. You were always looking out for me like that.”

“You’re my best friend, Eds, it wasn’t a big deal,” Richie insists again. Even though it was, kind of. It had felt like the grandest gesture he had to offer, back then, the most he could do without giving himself away entirely. And with Eddie cuddled up under his arm, he’d almost blurted it all out anyway. Instead, he’d pointed out the handful of constellations he knew before making up some more. 

“No one else did stuff like that for me,” Eddie says now. “Or does. I mean, you’re doing it now, too.”

“Well, you were looking a little kicked-puppyish earlier,” Richie says. 

Eddie’s smile turns wry, and he wrinkles his nose. “Wonder if I can still remember all those fuckin’ constellations you made up. One of them was Orion’s Dick, right?”

Richie laughs loudly, pressing a hand to his mouth to stifle the sound. “Yeah,” he says, once he’s gotten himself mostly under control. “And you can’t forget the Little Spaghetti.” 

“Oh, of course not,” Eddie says, rolling his eyes. He shuffles closer, so their bodies press together, and Richie stops laughing entirely, the ghost of his grin still frozen on his face. “Remind me where that one was again?” Eddie says, looking up at the sky with his face so close that his hair brushes Richie’s ear.

“Um,” Richie says. He swallows, lifting his hand to point. “It was just the Little Dipper. Right there.” 

Eddie’s amused huff sends warm breath against Richie’s cheek, and he feels goosebumps prickle on the back of his neck. “That doesn’t even look like spaghetti, idiot,” Eddie says.

“It wasn’t supposed to be _spaghetti-_ spaghetti, it was supposed to be you.”

“Well it _definitely_ doesn’t look like me,” Eddie says. “It doesn’t even look like a ladle or whatever the fuck the Little Dipper is actually supposed to be. Constellations are kind of bullshit.”

“Watch out, everyone, Eddie Kaspbrak coming in with the hot takes,” Richie says. Eddie reaches over to swat him without looking, and Richie laughs. Annoyed Eddie is easier for him to handle than fond Eddie. It’s a balance Richie has to strike for the sake of his own sanity. Fond Eddie is too tempting — pushing Richie’s mind into dangerous territory that he’s sure to fuck up.

For an indeterminate amount of time, they lie there in the truck bed, making mindless smalltalk while Richie tries not to spontaneously combust every time he’s reminded of Eddie’s proximity. Eventually, though, Eddie sits up and groans, stretching his neck from side to side. 

“I gotta go to sleep, dude, it’s so late,” he says, yawning halfway through the sentence. “I’m gonna get up early and go for a run tomorrow.”

“Practicing for when a bear chases you, huh,” Richie says, and Eddie elbows him in the ribs. 

“Shut up about the bears before I feed you to one,” Eddie says, hoisting himself out of the truck. He’s frowning sternly, but all wrapped up in the blanket with it pulled on top of his head like a hood, and there’s no way Richie can take him seriously. He looks ridiculous. Richie loves him so much it makes his teeth hurt. He reaches over to ruffle the top of Eddie’s head, knocking the blanket askew and fucking up his hair. Eddie yelps and smacks his hand aside.

“Cut it out, dickwad!”

“You’re just too cute, I simply can’t resist,” Richie says, laying it on thick enough that the sincerity doesn’t bleed through. 

When they get back inside, Eddie hesitates with his hand on the knob to his bedroom door. He looks over at Richie and smiles slightly. “Thanks for… you know. That. I think I needed it.”

“Anytime,” Richie says, his heart ballooning in his chest. “I got your back.” 

“Yeah.” Eddie looks a little flushed again, but it’s probably just the low lighting. He pauses, then says, “That goes both ways, you know? If you ever need anything, or just, I don’t know, want to talk about anything? I’m here for you, dude.”

“Oh, uh, I mean, I’m fine,” Richie says quickly. “I mean, I’m a mess, but what else is new, right? Same old Richie.” He laughs awkwardly.

Eddie’s brow creases slightly. “I’m serious, Rich.”

“So am I! What are you worrying about me for? You don’t need any more worrying on your agenda, it’s all full up. I’m a big boy, I’m fine.” Richie pats Eddie on the shoulder. “Now go get your beauty sleep, Kaspbrak, you need it.”

“Asshole,” Eddie says without heat. He relents, pushing open his bedroom door. “G’night, Richie.”

“Night, Eddie,” Richie says softly. He waits until Eddie’s shut the door before turning to lean his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes and letting out a sigh. Talking to Eddie is both the easiest and the hardest thing in the goddamn world. 

* * *

Richie hardly sleeps that night, too caught up in his own thoughts, and by six in the morning he’s given up entirely. He’s still exhausted, though, so he drags himself out of bed and slouches into the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee with sleep-clouded eyes. He stands at the counter in his pajamas — a pair of gym shorts and a faded T-shirt that at one point had a band logo on it — and sips from a mug, letting his glasses fog up. 

It’s how he almost misses Eddie coming down the stairs until he’s already almost to the door. Richie’s glasses clear up and reveal Eddie, hair still curly and rumpled from sleep, wearing a grey T-shirt that hugs the shape of his biceps, and a pair of red running shorts that are _very_ short — like, throwback to thirteen-year-old Eddie’s 1980s fashion _short_ — and give Richie a very well-defined view of his ass. Richie’s still half-asleep and he can only resist temptation so much, so he lets himself openly ogle Eddie’s ass for just a couple seconds.

Except then Eddie stops in front of the door and turns to look over his shoulder at Richie, a fact that Richie realizes a fraction of a second too late. He jerks his head up and takes a gulp of coffee so big that he burns his entire mouth, his whole face scrunching into an exaggerated grimace. 

“Uh,” Eddie says slowly, waiting for Richie to recover. “You good, bro?”

Richie blinks, his eyes streaming, and says hoarsely, “Super!”

Eddie’s hand rests on the knob, but he doesn’t open the door. “What are you doing up so early?”

“Eh, couldn’t sleep.” Richie shrugs.

“Are you okay?” Eddie asks, letting go of the doorknob and turning around to face Richie fully. “I get these fucking awful nightmares sometimes, it can be really hard to fall asleep, do you —”

Floundering in the face of Eddie’s earnest concern, Richie blurts, “Hey, can I come running with you?”

Eddie stops whatever he was going to say and stares at Richie like he’s grown a second head. “You… want to go running with me,” he repeats.

“Yes,” Richie says, a little offended by his (entirely justified) incredulity.

“Richie, when’s the last time you ran? In any capacity?”

Richie pretends to count on his fingers. “Mm, let’s see, it’s been about… hey, how many months has it been since we had to run from the clown?” 

Eddie literally facepalms, something Richie has never seen anyone but Eddie do in real life. “Jesus Christ, Richie. You understand I’m training for a marathon, right? Like, I’ve been actively running for months now.”

“What, you don’t think I can keep up with those little ol’ legs of yours?” Richie says, pushing himself away from the counter so he’s standing up straight. “I’ve got _inches_ on you, Kaspbrak. Some might even say half a _foot.”_

“Four inches is not half a foot, bite me,” Eddie snaps. “And no, I don’t think you can keep up. I told you before, it’s about endurance and stamina.”

Logically, Richie knows Eddie is probably right. And he doesn’t really _want_ to run, but at this point it feels like a challenge. And if life’s a game of truth or dare, Richie will go for the dare every time. “You know what, shortstack, I’m gonna come with you and we’ll see who’s right.” 

Eddie throws his hands up in defeat. “Hey, you wanna give yourself a pulled muscle before seven a.m., be my guest.”

So that’s how Richie finds himself, still wearing his gym shorts and threadbare T-shirt, jogging a couple feet behind Eddie around the little neighborhood street surrounding the lake. Eddie was right, of course — Richie can’t quite keep up with his brisk pace. But he’s not about to complain about being a few steps behind, watching the tight muscles in Eddie’s calves and thighs as he runs. Not to mention his ass. Those shorts really leave little to the imagination. Richie doesn’t know whether to be thankful or distraught about this new form of torture. 

“You doing okay back there? Need me to slow down?” Eddie asks without turning around. He doesn’t even sound out of breath. Richie’s proud of him, because Eddie’s obviously been working really hard to get to this point and it must be empowering to be _able_ to do this after a lifetime of people telling him he physically couldn’t — but also, Richie is acutely feeling the years of smoking in his youth right about now, and Eddie is _definitely_ rubbing it in. 

“I’m saving my strength,” Richie replies, huffing. “You ever read the Tortoise and the Hare? You’ll run out of steam sooner or later, Eds, and that’s when I win.”

“It’s not a race, dipshit,” Eddie says. Richie can hear the smile in his voice. “Y’know, the good thing about bringing you out here with me is if a bear _does_ show up, it’ll go after you first.”

Richie laughs breathlessly, stumbling slightly. “Hey, how come you get to make bear jokes now, dick?” 

Eddie snickers and starts to turn around. Richie catches sight of his wicked grin, and somehow that’s even more of a breath-stealing gut-punch than Eddie’s tiny shorts. Richie stumbles again, but this time his left foot catches on something and twists all wrong, and he yelps before completely eating shit on the pavement. 

He rolls over, groaning, and stares up at the cloudless pale blue of the early morning sky. He hears footsteps hurrying over and then Eddie is looming above him, his face all pinched with concern. 

“Oh fuck, Richie, are you okay? What the fuck happened?”

“I tripped,” Richie says dazedly. He sits up with a wince.

“Is anything broken? Did you hit your head? Here, don’t move, hold on.” Eddie’s hands are suddenly on Richie’s face, patting his forehead and smoothing through his hair to feel for bumps. Richie stays very still and tries to breathe like a normal person. Eddie’s hands move to squeeze along his legs, which is dangerously close to erotic until Eddie’s hand goes around Richie’s left ankle and Richie hisses in pain. 

“Careful, Jesus,” he complains.

“Shit. You probably sprained it when you fell. Can you stand?” Eddie sounds vaguely panicked. 

“It’s fine, Eds, I’m sure I can stand — _ow,_ fuck, maybe not.” Richie pushes himself up to a crouch as he speaks, but the moment he puts weight on his ankle it throbs with pain and he ends up sitting back on his ass again. 

“We need to get you back to the house,” Eddie says, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “I have an ace bandage in my first aid kit, and we can get you some ice. I _told_ you, Richie, I knew you’d end up hurting yourself, but you just had to be fucking stubborn —” He continues ranting as he slings Richie’s arm over his shoulders and hoists him to his feet, forcing Richie to hunch over so he can lean some of his weight against Eddie. It really is a testament to how strong Eddie’s gotten, that he can support Richie despite their size difference. It takes them a good fifteen minutes to get back to the cabin, and by the time they’re through the front door they’re both panting with exertion, Richie gritting his teeth through the pain every time he has to limp forward with his left leg. 

The stairs are another fucking ordeal, but they make it up to the second floor with minimal hissed swears at each other. It’s still not even seven, so no one else is awake, and frankly Richie wants to keep it that way. This is embarrassing enough as it is. 

Eddie drags Richie into his bedroom and helps him sit down on the edge of the bed before digging through one of his suitcases for his first aid kit. He takes out the ace bandage and eyes it critically.

“I know how to wrap these properly,” he tells Richie, coming to kneel in front of him. “I watched a YouTube video.”

Richie laughs, his breath catching as Eddie touches his leg again. “Dr. K to the rescue.” 

Eddie shoots him an annoyed look, and then tugs off Richie’s left shoe and sock. He’s gentler about it than Richie expected, taking care not to jostle his ankle more than he has to. Richie thinks back to dozens of times throughout his childhood when he’d scraped his knees or cut open his finger. Eddie would get so focused and careful, bandaging him up like he was something worth keeping safe, and Richie would think, in those moments, that having Eddie’s focus on him like that felt just as dangerous as whatever he’d done to make it happen in the first place.

Eddie wraps the bandage firmly around Richie’s foot and then up over his ankle before securing it in place with the velcro end. Then he just stays there for a moment, one hand cupping the arch of Richie’s foot and the other against his shin. Even through the bandage, Richie can feel the cool press of Eddie’s hands, and his blood is rushing in his ears. He stares at the top of Eddie’s head and hopes he isn’t trembling.

Then Eddie looks up, his eyes big and dark, and Richie — he doesn’t even really mean to, his body just reacts, because Eddie’s so close and touching him so tenderly — he leans down and forward to press his mouth to Eddie’s. 

The kiss lasts a fraction of a second, because the moment Richie feels Eddie’s lips against his it’s like his whole body lights up, and Richie jerks back like he’s been shocked. “I’m sorry, shit, I’m so fucking sorry,” he babbles instantly, not daring to look at Eddie’s face. He tries to stand up, to escape in a blind panic, but his ankle isn’t having it and he hisses in pain. Eddie’s already shoving him back down onto the bed, his hands firm on Richie’s shoulders.

“What are you _doing,_ you have a sprained fucking ankle, stop trying to walk,” Eddie says, keeping his fingers clenched around Richie’s shoulders. Richie cuts his eyes up to look at Eddie for a split second, and his expression isn’t one of anger or disgust, which is a good sign. Mostly he just looks stern. 

“Sorry,” Richie mumbles again. 

Eddie sighs, letting go of Richie at last and moving to sit next to him on the bed. “Were you just going to run out of here without a fucking word?”

Richie avoids his gaze. “I guess.”

_“Why,”_ Eddie says. “You can’t just do something like that and then not — you never —” he stops, cutting himself off, and lets out a frustrated breath. “You don’t ever talk to me, Rich.”

“That’s not true,” Richie protests.

“Okay, we talk, but always about _me._ My divorce, my new hobbies, my fucking countless neuroses — you never talk to me about you.” 

“Yeah, well, three guesses why,” Richie says, twisting his hands together in his lap.

“No, no guessing. Just tell me,” Eddie says, and reaches over to still Richie’s fidgeting hands. Richie saw it coming, but he still jumps at the contact. He side-eyes Eddie, who’s looking at him pleadingly, and fuck if Richie’s ever been able to resist that face. 

“Talking about me is. Really fucking terrifying,” Richie manages. “Especially to you.”

“Because…” Eddie begins.

“Because I’m fucking crazy about you, Eds, why do you think?” Richie says, louder and faster than he means to. He slips his hand out from under Eddie’s so he can cover his face. “Fuck. And I don’t — I don’t want to ruin this.” He gestures vaguely, not sure if by “this” he means their friendship or just Eddie himself. Both, probably. 

Eddie makes a quiet, distressed noise, and then says softly, “Rich… you’re not ruining anything. Why would you think that?” 

Richie laughs humorlessly. “Because I’m me, that’s why. I mean, look at me.”

“I’ve been looking,” Eddie says, and there’s something earnest in his tone that makes Richie lift his head. Eddie’s expression is a vulnerable one, the worried crease absent from his brow. “I thought you noticed.” 

And the thing is, maybe Richie has noticed, but — _but_ Richie is a master of self-destruction, _but_ he can’t ever keep a good thing when he wants it too much, _but_ Eddie was so recently married to a woman — a dozen different excuses he’s been giving himself to keep from hoping too hard. Eddie’s looking at him now, just like how he looked at Richie in the lake, or in the back of Ben’s pickup truck. It sends Richie’s heart thrumming like a rabbit’s. 

“Eddie,” he breathes, and then doesn’t say anything else, because the lingering urge to protect himself from hurting has built a dam in his throat, and the words won’t come out. 

“You don’t need to apologize for kissing me,” Eddie says. “I don’t mind.” He pauses, and then exhales hard. He’s looking a little nervous, too, which is almost a relief. “I mean — I _want_ you to kiss me, Richie.” 

Richie’s mouth goes dry. “Yeah?” he says hoarsely.

“Yeah.” Eddie nods firmly, more confident. He lifts his hand and carefully rests it against Richie’s face, cupping his cheek. Richie shudders out an exhale. He wants to touch Eddie back, wants to close the distance between them again, but first —

“Eddie,” he manages, forcing his voice to stay steady. He can’t quite meet Eddie’s eyes, so he stares at his eyebrow while he talks. “I need you to understand what I’m saying here. I, I’m in love with you, man. And this is — this is a lot for me, right now, and if we’re not on the same page it could be pretty fucking devastating for me. So I just need you to be sure before you do anything.” He closes his eyes tight. “Please be sure,” he adds quietly. 

Eddie doesn’t say anything at first, just keeps his hand on Richie’s face. His fingers are cold, his palm soft. Richie keeps his eyes shut, breathing slow and measured, just trying to memorize the sensation of Eddie touching him. And then he feels warm breath on his face, and Eddie’s kissing him. It’s not a great kiss, their noses pressing together uncomfortably, but then Richie’s brain kicks into gear and he puts his hand on the back of Eddie’s neck and tilts his head, correcting the angle, and their mouths slot together. Richie parts his lips, feels Eddie’s tongue press almost curiously into his mouth, and he groans in the back of his throat, hauling Eddie in closer by the nape of his neck. Their mouths part and then come together again a few times, kissing until finally Richie has to break away, his heart hammering against his ribs. It’s all just. A lot. 

Eddie rests his forehead against Richie’s, knocking into his glasses a little, and Richie finally opens his eyes. Eddie’s so close, Richie could count the sun-darkened freckles across his cheeks. One of Eddie’s hands traces Richie’s face, fingers moving from the line of his jaw to brush over his lips. Richie kind of wants to cry. 

“I’m sure,” Eddie says. “I’m really fucking sure, Richie.” 

Richie sniffles. “Will it change your mind if I tell you I didn’t brush my teeth this morning?”

Eddie laughs. “You know what? I don’t even care.” As if to prove his point, he kisses Richie again, hard and quick, before pulling back enough to really look at him. “My whole fucking life, man, it’s like — things just happened to me and I went along with it, and it got to the point where I didn’t even _know_ what I wanted, or what I liked, because I let everyone else figure that out for me. I’m not doing that shit anymore. I like running, and I like wearing overalls even if they make me look like I’m trying too hard to not look old, and I like men.” He cups Richie’s face in both hands, smushing his cheeks a little, and emphasizes, “I like _you.”_

Richie bites his lip, but he can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. “You _like_ me?” he repeats, teasing.

“I love you,” Eddie corrects. 

And even though it’s what Richie was fishing for, it still takes him by surprise, and he feels his smile go wobbly. “Oh,” he says. 

“I love you, and I want to be honest about that,” Eddie tells him. “What do you want, Rich?”

Now, there’s a loaded question. Richie can think of a _lot_ of things he wants — but his ankle fucking hurts, and he got no sleep last night, and he’s feeling a little emotionally vulnerable, so he says, “Can I just — hold you?” 

And it’s worth the embarrassment of being so honest to see Eddie’s face soften, his eyes getting all big and shiny like they should have cartoon hearts in them. “Yeah, that sounds good.” 

Richie shifts so he’s sitting up against the headboard, and Eddie helps him prop his ankle up on a pillow before curling up next to him, throwing an arm around Richie’s middle and tucking his face against Richie’s neck. Richie puts his arms around Eddie the way he wanted to the night before in the truck bed, pressing his nose into Eddie’s hair. He hasn’t styled it yet today, so it’s soft and just smells like Eddie — sunshine and sweat and his hypoallergenic shampoo. Richie closes his eyes. He feels Eddie’s ribs expand as he breathes in deep. 

“I was starting to think I’d keep waiting for the right time to tell you and then just. Never tell you,” Eddie says. 

Richie huffs out a little laugh. “Yeah. Yeah, me too. Thank god for my momentary lapse in impulse control, huh?” 

“Some things are worth the risk,” Eddie says softly.

Richie grins. “Was this what you were getting at the other night, then?”

Eddie’s hand traces idly up and down Richie’s side, not quite ticklish but enough to make him shiver. “Mm, sort of, yeah,” he mumbles. “But also, I don’t know. I’ve been worried about you. You always seem kinda bummed out these days.”

“Oh.” Richie doesn’t say anything for a moment, just moves his hand to card his fingers through Eddie’s hair. Then, because he finally feels capable of putting it to words, he says, “I guess I have been. Like, I came out to you guys, and I feel mostly ready to come out to everyone else, and that’s this _huge_ thing I’ve been carrying for so long, I thought once I let go of it, that’d be it, and I’d feel better. But I think I was still… god, Eddie, I’ve been so ashamed for so long about wanting _you,_ specifically. I was so scared you’d be disgusted, that I’d ruin everything, I couldn’t — it was so hard to let that go.” He laughs a little. “Honestly, I’m still half-expecting this to be a fucking dream or something.” 

Eddie lifts his head, a hand on Richie’s chest to prop himself up. His expression is serious, his gaze intense as he looks right into Richie’s eyes. “You couldn’t ruin this, Rich. I mean it, even if I didn’t feel the same way. You’re my best friend, okay?”

Richie leans in to bump their noses together. “Okay. You’re mine too, Spaghetti.”

Eddie laughs, his nose scrunching up, and then he sighs. “We need to ice your ankle, man, it’s going to start swelling.” 

“In a minute,” Richie says, pulling Eddie back against him. “I’ve got like three decades worth of cuddling to cash in on.” 

Eddie hums, and Richie can feel his smile curving where his face is pressing against Richie’s neck. It’s such a little thing, something he never knew he wanted — to be able to feel Eddie’s smile. 

At some point soon they’ll have to tend to Richie’s ankle, and the other Losers will wake up and they’ll have to decide how to break the news to them, but for now, Richie has the quiet warmth of early morning, and Eddie in his arms, and the feeling of a smile against his skin. For now, Richie’s going to fully appreciate all the little things.

**Author's Note:**

> im on twitter @hermanngottiieb, where i'll be retweeting all the secret santa content from this exchange! and talkin reddie 24/7 babie


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